A Warrior's Heart
by PenetratingBlackEyes
Summary: Short story loosly based on the Redwall series. After losing everything, the warrior squirrel Redburn vows revenge. Full summary inside.


A/N: This is a short story I wrote a few years ago for a creative writing assignment. The assingment was simple: Write a story about anything you want. I found it extremely hard at first because there were no restrictions. I had to come up with something entirely on my own. As I was sifting through ideas of what to write, this came into my head, and I wrote about it. I got an A+. It's loosely based on the Redwall series. Please enjoy.

--X--

**A Warrior's Heart**

It was a fine summers day, and the woods were quiet and peaceful. Birds chirped and sang among the trees, and flowers of many hues peeked out between the ferns and fallen logs that littered the forest floor. Among this beauty in a small grove something was stirring. It was a squirrel. His name was Redburn and though no one knew him you could tell that he was a warrior. His reddish-brown glistened in the sunlight as he leaned against a gnarled birch. He wore a coarse brown tunic, a belt that held several daggers, and a deep burgundy vest. On his back were two strange-looking weapons strapped in place by several black bands that criss-crossed over the squirrel's front and back. The weapons looked a little like a boomerang. A boomerang that had a row of sharp silver spikes sticking out of both sides. These were called boonslings. The squirrel seemed decent enough as he sat there, but his eyes had a certain mad glint about them- the look of the hunted.

For several days Redburn had been pursued by a band of weasels after killing a number of them. Redburn hated weasels. They were the reason that he was alone in life. A few seasons ago about twenty of the hated devils had come upon his family's home deep in the southern woods, and had murdered his whole family and stolen their possessions.

Reburn felt a bubbling hate in the pit of his stomach as he remembered coming home from gathering herbs to be greeted by his brother's staring, glassy eyes. Redburn had vowed that day to kill any weasel he came upon. He had sworn it on his family's carcasses, and he would keep that promise.

"They'll pay," he swore to himself. "They'll all pay!"

In his rage, Redburn whipped out one of his daggers and rammed it into the closest tree. Cursing to himself, he jammed it in deeper and deeper, until none of the blade was visible. Two mole maids, who had been watching him silently, shrieked in fright, and ran away with a flash of foliage.

Redburn spun around, startled. He could still hear the moles crashing through the undergrowth. "Those stupid kids will alert the weasels for sure," he muttered to himself. Redburn quickly pressed his ear to the ground, where he heard faint vibrations. He scurried up a tree to the top. Redburn could see birds flying up from the north. So the weasels know where I am, he thought grimly. Very well. I have a score to settle with them.

Redburn flew down the tree and landed on the ground with a soft _thump._ Then he settled down to wait, one hand resting on a dagger handle, the other tense and waiting to fly back to his boonslings. After several hours and nothing Redburn started to mutter, "Why haven't they come yet? They know where I am."

The squirrel got up to investigate, stealthily moving between the trees and bushes without a sound, like a shadow. That's when he heard it: A soft thudding on the ground coming from ahead. Redburn tensed and then flung himself out of the bushes. There was a gasp and a small scuffle as Redburn pinned the stranger to a tree, dagger pressing into its throat.

"Eeeeek!" the vole screamed," Please sirs spare me, me has done nothing wrong!"

Redburn breathed a sigh of relief. It was just a little vole. He relaxed the dagger a bit then barked, "Who are you?"

"Me name is Frug misters, and me has done nothing wrong, please don't kill me!" he screeched. Frug then burst promptly into tears.

"I'm not going to kill you, you stupid vole, so stop your sniveling," Redburn snarled. He stuck the dagger back in his belt and stepped back. Frug gasped and started to massage his throat; small tears still trickling down his face.

"Now," said Redburn as calmly as he could, "Have you seen any weasels about?"

"No, me has seen no weasels, none at all," the vole stammered.

"Really? Because I was under the impression that there were some in the area," Redburn whispered, "Perhaps you know one. His name's Murag." Frug shrieked and jumped back in fright. Murag was known for many things but above all for his cruelty.

"How could me not know who Murag is," Frug said, his eyes wide. Frug bit his lip and seemed to ponder something. He leaned in towards Redburn. "Can you keep a secret?" he asked. Redburn nodded. "They made camp just north of here," Frug whispered.

Frug backed away sniffling. Redburn immediately climbed up a pine tree and scanned the area. He could see smoke curling into the air from the north, just a little ways up. So, the stupid vole told the truth, thought Redburn. As he made his way to the ground he saw that Frug was still standing there. Apparently the vole had wanted to make sure that Redburn knew he wasn't lying.

"What do you want?" Redburn asked with an edge to his voice.

"When you meets the weasels could you, could you not tell them me told you where they was?" Frug asked. "Me doesn't want to die like you."

"Right," Redburn replied shortly. With that they parted and started to heading in their separate directions. Redburn could hear Frug start to waddle off into the forest. Redburn turned around.

"Hey," he called. Frug turned around, frightened. "I'm not going to die," Redburn said. And with that, Redburn was gone and Frug was left standing terrified and bewildered.

Redburn slipped between the trees silently, his eyes looking in the growing shadows, searching. His senses tingled in his body as he ran. At dusk Redburn stopped. He climbed a tree and looked out on the forest. There, he could see the camp; he was almost on top of them. Small cooking fires could be seen dotting the forest floor like small coals. A plan was already forming in Redburn's mind as he sat watching the enemy camp. Several minutes later Redburn quietly climbed down the tree. Suddenly Redburn heard a twig snap behind him. He whirled around, dagger in hand. Something collided with the side of his head and stars exploded, flashing before his eyes. The last thing he heard before he blacked out was a hoarse scream that pierced the night.

Redburn woke some time later. He sat there for a few minutes to regain his senses. With a dull pounding in his head, Redburn licked his cracked lips. He could taste blood. He guessed it was morning, maybe afternoon because he could hear birds singing nearby. Redburn slowly opened his eyes a sliver so it still looked like they were closed. He turned his head slowly. The sun was shining dimly, and he could still see some smoke rising from the ashes of the fires. So it was early morning, and from the looks of things everyone was asleep. Everyone that is except for the two weasels standing guard over Redburn. One looked drowsy, the other looked vicious. Redburn realized that he was sitting on the ground with his paws bound tightly behind him. Redburn looked up at the guards. He saw that one was holding his weapons. So there might be hope of getting them back, he thought. Suddenly one of the guards looked at him, and realizing he was awake kicked him hard in the shin.

The other guard, whose name was Grun, jumped; he had apparently woken from his stupor. "What'd you do that for?" he asked stupidly.

"The prisoner's awake," the other guard answered gruffly.

"Oh," Grun said turning to Redburn and kicking him too. Redburn keeled forward coughing, spraying blood and spittle on the ground.

"That's what you get for killing Durvan, squirrel," Grun said and then he raised his leg; he was about to strike again. Redburn saw this and quick as a flash rolled sideways to avoid the blow.

"Fool," Redburn snarled, "You'll soon meet the same end as your weasel pal."

"Why you little – " Grun started angrily, before Kosov, the guard who had kicked Redburn first, interrupted him.

"Calm down, the puny squirrel's just messin' with your head," Kosov said but then added maliciously, "Besides let him have his fun. Words are all he has now. Because Murag is awake, squirrel. And he wants to talk to you."

"Yeah," said Grun laughing, "He wants to talk to you." Yeah, though Redburn, if by talking you mean saying a few words before he kills me. Redburn had analyzed the situation and knew what was soon to happen. He also knew that if he didn't back his weapons he wouldn't make it out of the encounter alive.

The sun rose higher and higher in the sky and with it the weasel camp came alive. Redburn didn't get to see any of this however, because a few minutes after their conversation ended, Kosov had shoved a cloth sack that reeked of blood of Redburn's head and dragged him over to a tree on the edge of camp.

Redburn was thinking, preparing himself. He knew what would happen. He would be dragged forward, Murag would gloat –all chieftains were the same- then he would be killed. And Redburn was ready. All too soon two hands grabbed Redburn and shoved him rougly forward. Redburn could feel their spears pressed against his back as the bag was whipped off his head. An impressive sight met his eyes.

Murag stood at the front of his horde of about fifty weasels, looking out at Redburn with all the arrogance of a conquering war hero. His fur was dark, it looked almost black, but Redburn was not surprised. It had been rumored that he had come from the deep south, where apparently the weather was hot, fruit was always in season, and there was no winter. Murag was garbed in his customary black tattered cloak, and bone earrings, necklaces, and anklets jangled when he walked. Reburn had a nagging suspicion that the bones were that of a mouse. Murag had a pink scar that stretched upward from his mouth, giving the impression that he was always grinning an evil grin. His gray eyes looked at Redburn in amusement.

Behind him his horde jeered and laughed as Redburn was brought forward. They had the customary black and blue war paint of their clan painted in patterns on their faces.

"So," Murag drawled with a slight accent, "You are the squirrel who has now slain eleven of my clan. What is your name, squirrel?"

"Redburn," Redburn said aggressively. Murag was slightly taken back inside but he did not let it show on the outside. Who was this squirrel who spoke his name with such ferocity?

"Redurn," Murag repeated.

"That's right, you stinkin' squeems!" Redburn snarled. A collective gasp arose from the weasels. Squeem was a term of deepest disrespect to weasels and insulted everything from their ancestry to their smell. Most of the clans' expressions turned to fury.

"How dare you!" shrieked a small-looking weasel by the name of Gritback. "You stupid squirrel! You'll pay for that! I'm gonna laugh when we kills yer. I'm gonna laugh when the ants start to crawl over yer broken body. I'm gonna laugh when yer bones are bleached white by the sun. I'm gonna – "

With a flick of Murag's wrist, one of the weasels by Gritback quickly grasped his javelin and gutted him. With a look of crazy disbelief on his face, Gritback fell to the ground.

"Now," Murag turned back to Redburn, unfazed by what he had done. "It's time squirrel. No you're not only gonna get it slow, but you're gonna get it rough."

Murag raised his saber and brought it swiftly down on Redburn. Redburn was ready. With lightning fast agility, he flipped forward so the saber slashed through his bonds. Before blood had even begun to drip from his cut paws, Redburn was on Grun and Kosov like a thousand angry hornets. The two were dead before they hit the ground. Redburn wasted no time. He lifted his boonslings above his head and let fly.

Weasels screeched in pain as the sharp spikes dug into their flesh, maiming their arms. It was over quickly. The weasels, though heavily armed, were no match for Redburn in his blind rage. He was unconscious of the weasels' screams of pain as he finished them. The only image that burned in his subconscious was that of his family.

At last Redburn stopped. He stood there panting and gazed about at the many bodies lying around him. Redburn began to shake. This couldn't be right, how had he taken out so many of them? But not all the weasels were down. Murag had been smarter than the rest of them and had quickly gotten out of the way. Now he advanced on Redburn's shaking form, his saber raised.

But Redburn heard him coming. He whirled around just a Murag lunged at him. They met and Redburn knew that Murag had the advantage because of his weaons. All Redburn had were daggers since boonslings were no good in close range fighting.

With dagger and saber together, Murag and Redburn furiously tried to push the other back. Murag pulled up and as he did spun around and stabbed at Redburn. Redburn moved away just in time, but the saber still caught him on the side. Blood began to flow, but Redburn didn't care. He had just seen an opening and he went for it. Diving down, he struck with all his strength. Murag gasped in pain as he felt the dagger in his leg. It wobbled as Murag moved, fully rammed in. But Murag kept fighting. Redburn knew he had gained the upper hand as Murag lashed out at him blindly. He easily sidestepped the poor aims and as he did kicked Murag hard in his injured knee. The bone snapped and Murag fell to the ground. It was over. Murag never got up again.

It seemed unreal to Redburn, as he ran through the trees, Murag's blood still wet on his paws, that it was only afternoon and the birds were flying and singing without a care in the world. Hadn't they been bothered by the weasels' screams? Even he, Redburn, was starting to remember them as he replayed the fight in his mind.

Redburn began to run faster, and faster. He kept running, and something was playing out in his mind. A single question was forming: Why am I running? No, that wasn't right. What am I running from? Redburn's heart knew the answer even if his brain did not.

His family, that's what he was running from. His family. Or their memories. They smothered Redburn. He had become obsessed with the memories until they had begun to haunt him. Sometimes on cold nights, when loneliness gnawed especially hard at Redburn's heart, he could swear he could hear his family talking to him. "Oh, Redburn, why didn't you save us?" they would say.

It was called survivor's guilt, but for Redburn it was much worse. It almost became a physical thing as a tidal wave of sadness engulfed his body. Wave after wave of emotion shook his body. Sadness, despair, hopelessness, loneliness, hate, guilt. This pain was so much worse then any physical wound. It consumed his very soul. Redburn closed his eyes. A memory came to him. It showed him and his siblings playing by their home. Suddenly the sister he had been about to tag turned to him, and in her soft, beautiful voice said, "Redburn if you loved me so much, why didn't you save me?"

Redburn flinched and opened his eyes. It had happened again. Why did this keep happening to him? The little voice in his head answered. You still feel guilty even though it wasn't your fault, it said. Redburn knew it was right. That's why he had vowed revenge on weasels all those seasons ago. Redburn had been desperate to pin the blame on someone, anyone else. Revenge had been the perfect outlet. But now he had just gotten the ultimate revenge, so why didn't it feel sweet? I've been such a fool, thought Redburn to himself, such a stupid fool. All those suns ago I never should have laid the blame on myself. It wasn't my fault. It was those weasels. And even if I had been there, it wouldn't have made a difference. I wasn't the warrior I am today, back then. I would have been killed for sure.

Feeling strangely refreshed, like a heavy weight had been lifted from his form, Redburn stood up. A revelation occurred to him. He didn't want to kill anymore. After all, when he did it was just turning him into one of them. With renwed strength, Redburn slipped from the tree and began to walk. Yeah, I'm not going to kill anymore. And with that, Redburn broke into a swift trot. But deep in the vast regions of his slightly healed heart, Redburn knew he would have to kill again. He was, after all, a warrior.

--X--

A/N: Aww, lol. I can't write a fight scene. And, about the boonslings- first, I aplogize for giving them such a retarded name. The assingment was due the next day, and I coudln't think of anything else. And also. the only reason that they're in the story at all was because I needed a weapon that had kind of the same effect of a shuriken, but wasn't a shuriken.

I'm not gonna beg for reviews on this one, guys. I just posted this for the hell of it.

Laters.

-PenetratingBlackEyes


End file.
